I entertain the idea of life and death. I entertain the idea of love and hate. I entertain the idea of future and past. I entertain the idea of joy and sadness. I entertain the idea of right and wrong.
Am I not supposed to live? Am I not supposed to love? Am I not supposed to have a future? Am I not supposed to be happy? Am I not supposed to be an example of righteousness? I want to be alive. I want to be loved. I want to have a future. I want to be happy. I want to be righteous. I want to be. I want to embrace. I want to dream. I want to smile. I want to stand tall.
I want to do these things, but I do not. I want to be like that, but I am not. I want to have these things, but I have not. I want to think like that, but I think not.
I long to be held in another's embrace. Everything that I am wants to be desired by others. Yet all I am to others is just another human, another pile of cells and DNA. They do not see the specks of stardust my eyes carry. They do not understand the depths of my soul. They do not comprehend the immenseness of my affection. It is for this reason that I do not love.
I do not believe in love or anything that it entails. But it is so against the very nature of my soul to forget how to love. So my heart cries out at two am, and I scream silently, wishing, praying I was never born. The pain it brings me to betray my natural desires is sharp, but I have learned to deal with it. You don't see it in the day, because I don't allow myself to feel it during the day. If I didn't care about people seeing my tears, I could. But the pain comes with sorrow and sorrow is strong. All of my emotions are heightened. I feel pain worse than anyone, and I feel joy more than anyone. I feel need and desire, and the lack thereof. I become desperate, I become sullen, I lose faith in the world, and I don't know how best to proceed. I hide in my shell and pretend that seeing people in love doesn't hurt me.
Because, secretly, I love too.
YOU ARE READING
Love Letters From The Lonely
General FictionA collection of love letters from people who never sent them. Are all these letters from one person? Or are they a web of sorrow and longing from many different authors? Writer's Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although its form is that of a...
